Ghost Touched
by Cactuar Runin
Summary: To save Lockwood and Co. from bankruptcy Lucy Carlyle must use her ability of Touch and uncover secrets about a murdered starlet tied to an old locket. Of course, Anthony Lockwood is more than supportive and oddly eager. At the same time, George Cubbins must suffer a terrible fate formulated by a grinning skull. One-shot. Nothing special. Switches to third person in the middle.


Our meal trailed off into frosty silence. Lockwood sat across the table from me, nursing his cold tea, flexing his injured fingers. Life was returning to them, but they still had a bluish look. George shuffled about the kichen like a nerdy walrus, gathering plates and tossing them into the sink.

I turned my own glass of tea over and over in my hand.

On the kitchen table between us, fully displayed in all its ghostly glory, lay the locket of Annabel Ward.

The chain was formed of twisted loops of gold, mostly clean and bright, except in a couple of spots where something black had clogged between the links. The pendant itself was rougly oval, about the dimenions of a walnut. Thanks to George's galumphing feet, it had a slightly squashed look. At one time the exterior must have been lovely. It had been lined with dozens of flakes of mother-of-pearl, pinkish-white and glittering, and neatly embedded in a mesh of gold. But many of the pieces had fallen out and, as with the chain, the surface was tarnished in places with ominous black flecks. Worst of all (and again thanks to George), the entire oval had been ruptured down one side. I could see a clear split along a seam.

More interesting than all that, however, was a slightly raised heart-shaped symbol halfway down the pendant at the front. Here, a faint and spidery pattern marked the gold.

"Oh!" I said. "There's an inscription on it."

I held it up so it caught the light, and ran my finger over the letters. As I did so, I caught a sudden sound of voices—a man and woman talking, then the woman's laughter, high and shrill. A moment later I blinked and the sensation faded. Curiously, I gazed at the small object in my hand before dropping it back on the table.

Across from me Lockwood watched with sudden interest. George appeared mildly interested. It seemed my inspection of the locket and curiosity had infected the others.

Despite himself, Lockwood got up and moved around the table. George had stopped doing the dishes and, flourishing a dish towel like a proper maid, was peering over my shoulder from the other side. Their eyes were locked on the thin script inscribed upon the locket's tarnished gold.

Four words. We gazed at them in silence for a time.

 _Tormentum meum_

 _latitia mea_

"What the hell does that gibberish mean?" George muttered, breaking the din.

"It's Latin, fat fuck," Lockwood said. "And here I thought you were the brains among us."

George visibly deflated.

"It's from the man who gave Annie this necklace," I said. "The one she loved . . ." The echo of the two voices still resonated in my mind.

Lockwood tapped his jaw, gazing at the locket thoughtfully. "This locket could possibly make big headlines if we were to find out more about its origins."

"Lockwood, people don't care about the stories associated with sources," George said, shaking his head. "In our line of work they only want ghosts busted fast and cheap."

"Yeah, people always know who to call to get the job done," I remarked with a wink.

"George! Reference those old farts again and I'll use you as ghost bait next time!" Lockwood threatened, causing George to frown and deflate even more.

"You're right about one thing, George. Our track record for successful jobs has been weak lately," said Lockwood, "but maybe this locket can be the key to getting our agency back on track."

Lockwood broke away from the table, arms raised to the ceiling as if in praise. "I mean think about it! A glamorous girl, brutally slain and lost for decades, two tragic lovers, a small but enterprising agency that uncovers the truth behind the killing . . ." He grinned at us. "Yes . . . if we play it right, we might make a splash big time with this. We could turn our fortunes around after all. But we'll need to get moving!"

"George—stop sobbing you tub of lard—that Latin dictionary is on the second floor landing. Bring it down!" Lockwood ordered, tapping his forehead. "Not that I need a book to read Latin since I'm a genius!"

 _An insufferable genius,_ I thought.

Raising his hand, Lockwood slapped George's lumpy rump. "Get a move on piggy! Bring it down!"

As George, sniffling, padded upstairs Lockwood turned to me wearing a grin brighter than sunlight. A shiver rolled down my spine like an ocean current.

What did our fearless leader want now?

Lockwood still grinned ear to ear. "Lucy. I believe there's something you can help with too."

I gazed at him. His transformation from the grumpy woebegone figure of a few minutes previously to a complete, mean-spirited bully was utterly complete. Lockwood's movements were quick and light, his injuries forgotten; his dark eyes sparkled as he looked into mine. In that instant it was as if nothing in the world fascinated him as much as me.

"Tell me something," Lockwood said. His hands slid into both his front pockets. "I almost don't want to ask this given our experiences these last two days, but when you held the locket just now, I don't suppose you . . . felt something, did you?"

What was he getting at? Regardless of my wariness I nodded slowly. "If you mean psychic residue, yes, I did. Voices, laughter . . . Not much. I wasn't trying too hard."

"A-Anything else?" Lockwood implored eagerly.

"What are you getting at?" I asked.

For a brief moment his grin vanished, replaced by a longing gape with his eyes fixed on mine. Quickly, Lockwood shook his head and regained his composure, once more wearing a congenial grin.

"Oh, nothing," Lockwood continued. "But Lucy, do you think . . . if you did try . . .?"

"You want me to see what sensations I can get." My ablility to sense spiritual auras through Touch was common knowledge.

Lockwood clapped his hands. "Yes! Isn't it a great idea? You might pick up something hot—er—vital; a clue that we can use."

I looked away, the intensity of his gaze embaressingly uncomfortable. "Sure, maybe . . . I don't know," I murmured.

Upstairs we heard a loud, metallic crash and a squeal of terror that broke my train of thought.

Glaring through popcorn asbestos at the second floor, Lockwood scowled. "That fucking idiot. Two clumsy and fat for his own good." He took a seat in the chair next to me. "If anyone can do it, you can, Luce. You're brilliant at this. Give it a go."

Moments before, he'd been promising to incinerate the locket. Now, it was the key to all our troubles. Moments before, Lockwood had been putout that I had brought a dangerous source into our agency and tampered with it; now, I was oddly the apple of his eye. This was the way with Anthony Lockwood. His mood swings were sometimes so sudden that they took your breath away, but his energy and enthusiasm were almost impossible to resist.

I could hear George thumping around upstairs, making a wreck of our rooms. If Lockwood was right about two things, then it was that George was an utter fool and that the Lockwood and Co. needed to be saved.

Shrugging, I heaved a sigh. "I guess anything is worth risking to help the agency. We definitely can't rely on George."

"Just for maid work," chuckled Lockwood.

I sighed heavily again, noting how Lockwood still had his hands in his pockets even while sitting down. "You know I can't promise anything. You know with Touch it's normally just emotions and sounds you get, not concrete facts."

"I'm sure you'll sense something," said Lockwood dreamily.

We both heard another louder, harsher crash and glass breaking. Somewhere above us George screamed like a banshee haunting a moor.

"Shouldn't we at least help George first—" I began before Lockwood pushed the locket toward me along the table.

"Ignore it," he said. "Can I help in any way to make the process easier? Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Luce?"

I brushed back my bangs. "No. Just shut up and let me concentrate."

Nodding, Lockwood sat back and relaxed, an attentive spectator with hands in his pockets.

Back on the table I stared at the locket hesitantly. I didn't pick it up at first. This wasn't, after all, something to do lightly. I knew Annabel Ward's fate had not been a pleasant one. So I took my time. I sat looking at the pendant and the coil of chain, and tried to rid my mind of thoughts as best I could. I set aside all the rushing, garbled feelings of the day-to-day and focused on the past.

At last I took the locket and hung it around my neck, holding the pendant in hand. The cool of the metal sank through my skin, deep into the fibers of my being. Lockwood watched expectantly as I waited for any echoes that might come.

And very soon, they did come, same as before however tenfold. I was ill-prepared as my world dissolved and the life and times of another hit me like a runaway train.

Lucy stood before 62 Sheen Road where their previous job had taken place, the murder scene where they had discovered the locket among the remains of Annabel Ward. The walls of the house were covered by vines, lost to history, worn down, weather-beaten. The worn, oaken front door surprisingly opened to her touch and swung inward. Her spine tingled in anticipation.

Lucy was not dissuaded to enter the dwelling, ghosts excited her, or rather the possibility of them.

"Wow," She breathed upon seeing a shadowy image just past the doorway. A tall, dark-headed man stood in the doorway, watching her. When Lucy blinked and looked up again she saw no one. She felt inspired to come closer. She understood why people felt creeped out by haunted houses, but here she felt welcomed, pulled in.

"Hello?" she asked. "Is there someone here?"

The presence felt all enveloping, like a warm embrace. Felt passionate.

"You came back."

Lucy heard the voice in her head. Gasping, she whirled, "Who ... said that … who's here? "

"Come upstairs," the warm, mellow voice said. "Don't worry, it's safe. I wouldn't let you get hurt." The drawl was thick, like honey, her skin tingled with warmth that ran from her arms into her legs and pooled between them like a nest.

"I've been waiting so long." The voice purred. "I missed you."

Inhaling the musty air, holding the locket that still hung from her neck, Lucy took the staircase carefully, keeping to the safe spots next to the railing. It wound around to connect with the second floor, dusty with debris everywhere, pigeons squawked and flew out of the rafters on the landing, she ducked, letting them fly out the broken window behind her.

The ghostly speaker chuckled, "Not as built, but she will suffice."

"Who . . . Who are you? How do you know me?" Lucy was drawn to the bedroom on the right directly off the stairs.

"You'll remember," the speaker purred.

Inside the room, the floor was painted a light blue, chipped and old obviously. The fireplace had cobwebs and a draft. The windows on either side of the fireplace were broken and one ledge was rotted. In the corner was an old vanity with a big mirror. The only piece of furniture in the room. Lucy walked to the mirror and looking in it, her lips were parted. She should have been afraid when he walked up behind her, his shirt opened all the way down, suspenders looped by his hips, his hair messy. Ghosts could look real bodied like that? She stared in wonder as he looked at her, lifting her short hair off her neck. She shivered upon feeling an electrical kiss run down her neck. Lucy could feel his lips on her neck, brushing softly over delicate skin. She slid her eyes closed.

"Why do I feel okay with this?" She whispered.

"Because you've been here before." The spirit whispered, his hands circling her waist and sliding up, "You wanted to know her more, that's why you've been so obsessed about this house. You wanted to come home to know." He nuzzled her as his hands rested under her breasts.

"It's true," Lucy sighed. "I've seen and heard you and her before. I didn't think ghosts could be this solid."

His hands ghosted over her hips and back up. Lucy felt them on her skin. "Look in the mirror. Remember me, my dear." He whispered in her ear.

Lucy opened her eyes and gasped. She saw herself with riotous blond curls instead of her dark bob of hair. Gone were her customary leggings, skirt, shirt, and jacket. In their place she was clad in an old chemise, corset gone and nipples hard under the material as the spirit untied the ribbons and let it fall off her creamy shoulders. He rained kisses across her barren skin. Lucy moaned, letting her head fall back, it felt so natural. She remembered these kisses, these arms, and she let herself become aroused, felt her body pulse with need. She reached a hand up and ran it through his hair.

All at once Lucy surrendered to the power of the locket.

"John," she breathed.

"Annabel," the spirit murmured, his large hands cupping her breasts—suddenly larger—and kneading the mounds like fresh dough. They felt solid. The whole thing felt real. She gave in to the feeling, electrified. She felt hands on her buttocks, a knee nudging them apart.

"Keep looking in the mirror," John said, his eyes a sharp and clear blue.

Annabel obeyed. In the mirror she was naked now, her body creamy white, nipples rosy and pink, figure lithe and sculpted. Her eyes followed the path of his hands from her breasts to hips, watched her belly quiver with arousal, watched as his hand dipped into the blonde curls between her legs.

Annabel cried out in pleasure as his fingers touched her sensitive flesh, wet to dripping already, he pulled her against him, kissing her neck, one hand on her breast and the other massaging her soft wet lips, her eyes slid shut out of pleasure and she moaned, her legs beginning to shake with the feeling of approaching orgasm. She could feel a hot fire in the fireplace, feel the night outside, the chill of the air. She was in another time as she writhed against the ghost named John. His chest felt solid and real, and that hard, hot piece of flesh against her round bottom felt very, very, very real. Annabel screamed, arching in pure ecstasy as he entered her from behind, hot, thick flesh opening her up. She panted, reaching back and grabbing a fistful of hair, knowing full well how her body had been well fucked numerous times. Even so, it felt as though this was the first time she had been entered.

John moaned behind her, letting himself sit inside of her a moment before beginning a steady pace. Annabel took a moment to look in the mirror and realize that in this wild dream she was a virgin, giving herself freely over. She was losing her balance as he moved. Feeling a hand on her back guiding her forward, she grasped the vanity, which felt new with no dust. Annabel clung to it, watching her perky breasts swing with each thrust as John's hands caressed her back and hips. She bit her lips, trying to silence her cries of pleasure, for someone could overhear their lovemaking.

"Let me hear you," John rasped, his voice full of pleasure, "please, let it go."

He purred as Annabel watched him. His face relaxed in pleasure, head back and Adam's apple pushed forward. His chest glistened with a sheen of sweat, which spattered off the black hair between his open shirt.  
Annabel's eyes rolled back and she groaned. Legs trembling, she shouted out as her body gave into the climax of orgasm. John pulled her against him, releasing his seed deep into her core. Annabel bucked as sticky, hot pleasure engulfed her whole body. She felt white-hot warmth inside of her as he moaned against her neck, holding her closer. She nuzzled him, sighing. Beneath them, the tiled floor was slick with their dripping juices.

John turned his lover around and held her face to face. "Look in the mirror," he exhaled.

Annabel did as asked and the world changed.

It was present day. Lucy was once again dressed in her agency gear, her body her own. The bedroom was run down like it should be. She didn't feel John so strongly. She shifted herself and felt warm arousal between her legs. She thought she caught her reflection winking at her and heard an otherworldly giggle come from somewhere. Bewildered, fearful, Lucy left the house, her legs shaking like she really had been fucked hard. An instant later she blacked out.

I opened my eyes to see our kitchen table, Lockwood was supporting me where I sat. I was no longer wearing the locket.

"Lucy," Lockwood said, anxious. "Are you okay? Maybe I shouldn't have asked you to do that."

"What happened to me?" I asked wearily.

"After going under you just blacked out." His big grin was returning. "A second later you were trembling, back arched, and well . . . moaning like you were . . . What did you envision? What did you find out about Annabel?"

Lockwood leaned awkwardly close to me. His breath was stale from lack of brushing. Although one hand supported my shoulder, I could see his other hand was shoved deep inside his pocket like a worm in a hole. Cheeks crimson, I decided to scoot a good distance away from him.

"I don't know . . ." I pushed away Lockwood's questing hand. Glancing askance, I saw the locket now lay on the kitchen table yet again. "The Touch was strong this time. More vivid than ever. Really vivid . . . It's completetly bound up with Annie's spirit and her memories. For a moment, I became her and felt what she felt. For me it wasn't a nice experience at all."

"That sounds hot—I mean awful," snapped Lockwood, grinning sheepishly. "Find out anything important, Luce?"

I could see Lockwood's pocketed hand worming in its burrow vigorously. "Just that her lover's name was John. Something tells me he could have been the cause Annie's demise . . ." I trailed off and looked around the cramped kitchen. "Say what happened to George?"

I turned to Lockwood, who looked out the kitchen window at the dark night. "Well Luce, while you moaning and bucking George kind of . . . How should I put it?" He shrugged. "That fucker had a bit of an accident. I think the fatass broke a window. The payment for damages are coming out of his paycheck of course."

Looking up, I could see a pair of dorky sneakers tapping rythmically against the dusty panes. On the windowsill a familiar pickled skull grinned at me mischeviously. I could only gulp.

"So Lucy," said Lockwood, breaking my attention away from the sinister skull. Both his hands were shoved back in their respective pockets, squirming. "Think you could explain in full detail what you went through in that vision? I'm all hands—er—ears!"

Groaning, I smacked my forehead in disbelief. "Why did I ever apply at this agency!"


End file.
